The Opposite Effect

by Shandi Boyes

  The heaviness weighing down my chest the past two hours lightens when a giggle spills from Clara's lips before she snatches her purse out of my hand and delves her hand inside. I roll my eyes when she produces a set of keys in under two point five seconds. Locating the car key I gave her four weeks ago, I jab it into the passenger side door and unlock her car.

  Clara’s gleaming eyes lift to mine when I gently lower her into the passenger seat of her car before securing her seatbelt. After closing the door, I race around her car and glide into the driver’s seat. Clara’s second giggle of the night topples from her lips when my knees become trapped behind the steering wheel.

  “What the hell? How can you drive sitting so close to the steering wheel?” I grumble, yanking on the seat mechanism.

  Clara giggles again. She must still be in shock. I've never heard her laugh so much. After pushing the seat back as far as it can go, I prod the key into the ignition and fire up the engine. The only noise heard in the cabin of Clara’s car for the first two miles is the small pants of her breath. Another mile out, I shift my eyes from the road to Clara. Although she doesn’t appear as rattled as earlier, her pupils are still filling her cornea, and her face is stained with tears. When another mile clicks over, the expression on her face surges from confused to concerned.

  “Where are we going?” she queries, just as I pull her car into the underground parking lot of my apartment building.

  I park her car in my assigned parking bay and switch off the ignition. “My place,” I reply before yanking open the driver’s side door and stepping onto the concrete.

  Any words she might speak are drowned out by the loud echo of her driver's side door slamming shut. Not giving her a chance to protest, I run around the car, swing open her door, and pull her into my arms. I'm shocked as hell when I walk through the deserted parking garage, and she clings to my chest. I expected some type of response. At the very least a gripe about how she can walk and doesn't need to be carried. But she doesn't say a thing. . . until I place her onto her feet at the door of my apartment.

  “Why am I here?” she asks, her eyes floating aimlessly around the empty corridor.

  Her eyes rocket to mine when I answer, “Because you’re in shock.”

  Her confused gaze stops bouncing between mine when my apartment door gives out a slight creak when I swing it open. I lean in and flick on the lights, illuminating my modest but well-decorated loft apartment. Clara steps two paces inside before stopping dead in her tracks. She stands frozen in the entranceway I finished refitting six months ago. After my grandmother moved into Caramine Care, I downgraded from a two-bedroom apartment to the loft on the top floor. Although I lost the bonus of a guest bedroom, I have the same floor space and the new addition of a rooftop patio.

  I track Clara's eyes as she absorbs my apartment in great detail. A double-sized living room with two suede sofas sits to her right; a manly black kitchen adeptly stocked with all the latest appliances is on her left, and a four-seater dining table is directly in front of her. Her eyes circle when she takes in the black wrought iron and wooden spiral staircase that leads to my bedroom floating above the living space. The thrum of the pulse in her neck quickens when her eyes run along the wood-lined pitched roof. Once she has surveyed every inch of my apartment, she locks her eyes with mine.

  “Why am I here?”

  “Because you’re in shock,” I repeat.

  I curl my arm around her shoulders and guide her deeper into the space. “You’re shaking and shit. I can’t leave you alone like this.”

  To be honest, I don’t know if the new shakes hammering her body are from the mugging or because she’s just realized I only have one bedroom. Either way, I’m not leaving her alone in this condition.

  When her shakes increase, I say, “Unless you can give me the address of a friend or family member I can take you to, you're staying here.” I move to stand in front of her. “Can you give me an address?”

  Fresh tears spring in her eyes before she shakes her head.

  “Then you're staying here.”

  Her eyes continue to absorb my apartment as she shadows me up the stairwell. While her eyes drink in the king size bed in the middle of the room, I pace to a set of drawers on my left.

  After yanking out a dark blue t-shirt, I pivot to face Clara. “Do you want to shower before you go to bed?”

  She licks her dry lips before shaking her head.

  “Alright, then put this on and jump into bed,” I hand her my shirt then nudge my head to my bed.

  Her pupils enlarge to the size of dinner plates as shock makes itself known on her face. “Can you turn around?”

  I arch my brow. "You were just about to suck my cock, but now you're acting all shy."

  Quicker than the flash of a camera bulb, Clara grasps the hem of her dress and whips it over her head.

  Holy fuck!

  I knew her body would be dynamite, but mother-fucking-lord it's even better than I expected. Perky round breasts only just concealed by a hot pink fancy lace bra I've only seen on the runway; a smooth, flat stomach; and lusciously long legs spread far enough apart, her sheer panties award me the slightest peek of a pussy I have no doubt tastes sweeter than honey.

  Staring me straight in the eyes, Clara drops my shirt beside her feet before sauntering to my bed. The hardness of my cock turns deadly when she slips between the sheets wearing nothing but a lace bra and a tiny pair of panties.

  The rise and fall of her chest increases when I grab the collar of my shirt to drag it over my head before lowering the zipper of my jeans. Her soft pants quicken when my jeans are kicked aside two seconds later.

  Just like I couldn’t take my eyes off her during her provocative striptease, her eyes drink in every inch of me as I stand before her in nothing but a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs.

  “Calvin Klein?” she queries with her brow bowed high.

  I shrug. “What? They’re comfy,” I reply before slipping into the opposite side of the bed.

  I freeze, and a curse word seeps from my lips when a warm hand grips my crotch, instantly turning my cock to stone. It takes a few moments for my brain to register what's going on, but when it does, it takes all my strength—and then some—to remove Clara's hand from stroking me through my briefs.

  “Nope. Not happening.” My words are rough, relaying the moral struggle I’m trudging through.

  “Why?” Clara snaps back. “If this isn’t what you brought me here for, why the hell am I here?”

  “Because you’re in shock!” I hiss through clenched teeth. “And when I take you—and don’t have any doubt, Princess, that was a when, not an if—it won’t be while you're in shock. I made a mistake once letting you kiss me when you were rattled. It ain’t happening again.”

  Leaning over, I switch off the lights. "Now roll onto your hip, so I can spoon you.”

  Clara gasps in a sharp breath, astonished by my demand. She isn't the only one surprised. I don't spoon. I've never fucking spooned. But I'll spoon her if it guarantees the parts of her body I want to explore the most are facing away from me.

  Grumbling under her breath, Clara rolls on her opposite hip. I splay my hand across the smooth planes of her stomach and draw her back. What? If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.

  My lips quirk. This spooning shit isn’t too bad. My cock is nestled between the crack of her ass and halfway up her back, my torso is being warmed by the heat of her body, and the scent of her recently shampooed hair is penetrating my nostrils. It isn’t half bad. I could get used to this.

  A few minutes pass in silence as I run my hand up and down Clara's forearm. If her breathing pattern had leveled out, I might have believed she was asleep, but I know she’s awake, even with not seeing her face.

  After another stint of quiet, Clara does a one-eighty. The moonlight sneaking into the room from the roof window illuminates half of her face. Even though I can only see half of her beautiful features I've studied in g
reat depth the past six months, I can see enough to tell she’s struggling to emerge from the pit her attack pushed her into.

  The warmth of her breath flutters my lips when she quietly murmurs, “Why am I here, Brax?”

  I run the back of my hand down her face, removing a tear that sneakily escaped her eye. “This may be a little hard for you to believe, but you’re here because I actually like you, Princess. I want to take care of you.”

  When she gasps, feigning shock, I chuckle.

  “Is my revelation really that shocking?”

  Clara shrugs. “Depends. If you really knew me—”

  “I know you,” I interrupt.

  "The real me, Brax. The before-Inked Clara," she interjects, her voice shaky and low. "If you knew that Clara, your opinion of me might change."

  “Un-fucking-likely,” I reply without the slightest hint of hesitation.

  Another stretch of silence passes between us. It isn't awkward, but necessary. Clara needs time to compose herself, and I need time to get over the shock I brought a woman to my apartment, and I'm not freaked out about it.

  An uneasiness settles in the bottom of my gut when Clara asks, “What are the chances of my necklace being found?”

  "I don't know," I reply honestly. "Depends on the value. If it's worth a lot, the chances are low."

  A heaviness slams into my chest when a stream of tears roll down her cheeks.

  “Was it worth a lot?”

  Clara shakes her head. “No.” She draws herself into my torso. “It’s not even valuable, but it’s all I have left.” Her lips quiver against my bare chest.

  She cries and cries until her eyes have no tears left, then she falls asleep in my arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My already brisk pace down the spiral staircase of my loft increases when three quick taps hit the front door of my apartment. I finish buttoning my jeans before swinging open the door. Diesel greets me with a broad grin and the key for my bike dangling from his index finger.

  “Thought you might need these,” he says, attempting to enter my apartment.

  I sidestep into his path, blocking his entrance. “Clara is still sleeping,” I advise him, my voice rough from just waking up. I lift and lock my eyes with his. “She’s not appropriately dressed for guests.”

  Diesel's bawdy grin turns huge. "So a shit night transformed into a good one?" He waggles his brows before curling his arm around my neck to noogie the top of my head.

  I punch him in the ribs, winding him. “Not exactly, asshole. She didn’t have any other place to go.”

  He takes a step back and peers into my eyes. “You still playing with that overstacked deck?”

  I scoff. “Only for as long as it takes for her shock to wear off.” My tone has a smear of annoyance attached to it. “Wouldn’t be much of a man if I took advantage of her while she was in shock.”

  Diesel’s lips purse before he curtly nods. “True. Didn’t think about that.”

  “You don’t really think about anything,” I quip.

  His smile enlarges. “True.”

  He props his shoulder onto the doorjamb of my entranceway. “We found two of the guys who jumped Clara last night.”

  My eyes drop to his knuckles. I’m not at all surprised to see they're busted.

  “Did you call Ryan?” I drag my eyes away from his bloody hands.

  Diesel bites his lip. “Yeah. . . after I had a quiet word with them.”

  “Were they locals?”

  He shakes his head. I’m not shocked by his revelation. Inked has had a “not to be messed with” stigma attached to it from the day Ryder opened the doors. There’s also the fact most of the crew who work there are born and bred Ravenshoe residents. Ravenshoe locals protect their own.

  “Did they have any of Clara’s jewelry on them?”

  My heart stops beating as I wait for Diesel to reply. It feels like I’m sucker punched when he briefly shakes his head.

  "I checked. They had nothing on them. For how well they kept their mouth shut, I think they're nothing but bottom feeders. When we snag the main guy, we might have a better chance of getting her stuff back." He pushes off the doorjamb. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to it. Just wanted to let you know Johnny and me are handling everything." He flicks his eyes up to my loft bedroom. "You look after her."

  Nodding my head, I shadow him down the corridor.

  “I parked your bike half a block down because I didn’t know the code for the underground garage,” Diesel advises when he reaches the peak of the stairwell.

  I run my hand across my tired eyes. “Thanks, I’ll move it into the garage later.”

  Diesel’s brows shoot up into his hairline when I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Since when have you been a shaking hands type of man?” he jests, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and drawing me in for a man hug.

  A chuckle escapes from my lips when he adds onto Charity's request last night. "Take care of Clara for me. If not, step aside and let a real man show you how it's done."

  He stumbles down the first three steps when I jab my fist into his right rib. After regaining his footing, he salutes me with two middle fingers before galloping down the stairs. His hearty chuckle is still bellowing up the stairwell when I amble back to my apartment.

  My eyes lift from the tiled floor in my kitchen when a creak sounds through my ears. I adjust my grip on the mug of coffee I’ve been nursing the past thirty minutes when Clara saunters down the staircase and floats across the room wearing nothing but my navy-blue shirt she left crumpled on my floor last night. Her face is creased from where it was pressed against my chest, her hair is a mess, and her face is void of any of the makeup she typically wears, but she still looks 100% appetizing.

  “This is even more embarrassing than the walk of shame.” She tugs down the hem of my shirt. “Where are my clothes?”

  I crack a smile. “They’re in the wash.” I nudge my head to the laundry room attached to my kitchen. “They should be ready in around forty minutes.” Or eighty, since I’m close to extending the wash cycle — seeing her in nothing but my shirt is a cock-twitching visual.

  Clara’s eyes drop to the coffee mug in my hand as she slips onto a barstool.

  “Coffee?”

  She smiles. “Yes please.”

  Filling a second mug with coffee, I place it in front of her before moving to the fridge to grab a carton of milk. Unlike me, Clara has her coffee with cream.

  I tilt my torso out of the fridge when she quietly mutters, “I’m sorry about last night.”

  Grabbing the carton of milk, I pace to stand in front of her. “It’s all good.” I set the milk down in front of her. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes lift from the speckled black counter to me before she nods.

  “Then we are all good.”

  Taking a step backward, I brace my back on the kitchen counter. The next few minutes are filled with quietness as we stand across from each other enjoying the pick-me-up only a healthy dose of caffeine can give. Although Clara doesn't look as tired as she did last night, she still appears restless. That probably has something to do with the little whimpers that escaped her lips while she slept.

  Once her mug is empty, Clara sets it on the countertop and lifts her eyes to me. “How come you didn’t take advantage of the situation last night?” she queries with her brows scrunched tightly.

  After placing my mug in the sink, I cross my arms in front of my bare chest. “Because under this beastly exterior is a man whose grandma raised him right.”

  Clara smiles softly. “You were raised by your grandma?”

  I nod. “Yeah. My momma died when I was little. I have no clue about my dad.”

  A flash of remorse passes Clara's eyes, but she remains quiet.

  “You?” I query, hoping since I’ve shared personal information, she may as well.

  Her face cringes. “I was raised by a handful of nannies.” She straightens her spine and sits higher in her chai
r. “My mom has been unwell for a long time, and my dad was always busy.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Clara shrugs. “I guess it’s all part and parcel of being born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Not something you would have ever had to worry about.”

  She balks as her pupils widen. Even though I can see she wishes she could ram her words back down her throat, it doesn't stop my anger from rising.

  "No, it's not something I could ever say concerned me." I try to keep the sneer out of my tone. I fail miserably. "Can I ask you a question?"

  Even though I’m asking a question, I continue speaking, not giving her a chance to reply.

  "Where was that silver spoon when your car got towed, and you got served an eviction notice? Where was it when you moved into a rat-infested dump? And where the fuck was it when you got jumped in the alley while working on the side of town you should have never stepped foot in?"

  Clara locks her soul-burning gaze with mine. “You—of all people—are going to judge me?”

  "Yeah, I fucking am," I reply, ignoring the way her little snipe dented my ego. "Because if you didn't have the crew of Inked and me stepping up to the plate, you'd be out there swinging the bat on your fucking own."

  My words are callous, but now that they're unleashed, I have no chance of reeling it in. My mind is spiraling, incapable of grasping how Clara can sit before me declaring she has a glamorous life when all I've witnessed the past four months is her taking blow after blow after fucking blow.

  Ignoring the anger blemishing her skin with a pink hue, I ask the question I've wanted to know for weeks. "Where’s this Isaac guy you wanted to mark your skin with? You cared enough about him that you were going to permanently bear his name on your hip, but he's nowhere to be found the instant your life starts circling the toilet bowl."